She looked up, eyes darting between the dress and his face.
“Yes, honeybutt?” she said, wearing a fearful smile.
“Whatwere you doing in this dress?” he asked.
“I… can’t remember.”
“Nice try. Fess up.”
“Imayhave been with Harry.”
He gasped. “Bist du deppat?You need a chastity belt.”
“What’s the issue? We’re consenting adults.”
He threw the dress at her. “Sniff it!”
She followed his instructions warily.
“Luisa’s and Beate’s mystery perfume!” he said.
Fuck.That’swhere she’d recognized it from. The Nightingale cologne belonged toHarry.
— 37 —Siebenunddreißig
So.
For once, the detectives found the suspects. The bachelor party, or book club, or whatever they were.
Sure, their solution hinged on Sterling’s tip to check local hospitals for a group of men who’d intended to come to town for a wedding but had instead found themselves drugged into another dimension. Whatever. How they got there didn’t matter, who made the arrest did. As their chief would say, “Es ist mir Wurst.”It is sausage to me.
Andreas and Beate reached the Kursalon music hall in time for the reception.
“Busting in on a wedding isn’t a great look for the department,” said Beate.
“I don’t know how traditional gay weddings are, but I assume they’ll be on a honeymoon tomorrow. So this is our last chance.”
A sign pointing to the reception was displayed beside a giant photo of the happy couple in London.
Beate chuckled. “That’s a weird coincidence. Both grooms are named David.”
As was their victim.
The detectives lingered in a colonnade behind the string quartet, peering over the musicians into the dining hall, where tuxedoed waiters ushered guests to their tables. Hundreds. Mostly men. All immaculately dressed. An empty head table had seats for eight groomsmen and two grooms.
A figure moved in the periphery. Andreas looked over, then frowned. A tall, thin woman paced towards them. The clipboard in her hand told him she was the wedding planner, and her expression told him to run.
What she actually said was, “This area’s reserved forguests only,” with a singed precision in her tone.
Andreas held out his badge.
Her nostrils flared as she scanned it, as if hydrangea-scented steam might shoot from them. Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t care if you have a badge, or a gun. You’re not ruining this year’s biggest wedding. Come with me,” she said, tugging him by his wrist with force sufficient to be considered a section 270 violation.
She dragged him by the arm, with Beate following, through a kitchen where caterers arranged tantalizing hors d’oeuvres, then into an ornate dinner hall that her team had converted into a pastel war room. The employees froze. The planner snapped her fingers. They fled. Andreas was starting to like her.
She pressed her hand to her earpiece. “Read. The. Spreadsheet.It’s thirty-two gluten-free meals, seventeen vegan, thirteen vegan-and-gluten-free, and one with extra gluten.”
She listened, lifting a finger to silence Andreas even though he hadn’t tried to speak. “No, I don’t know what that means. Give him a bread basket or sprinkle flour on his plate. You’re the chef.”
